Kindred of the Dust eBook

Mr. Daney dashed the tears from his whiskers and blew
his nose. Then he pulled himself together with
dignity and bowed so low he lost his center of gravity
and teetered a little on his toes before recovering
his balance. “Fired is GOOD,” he declared.
“Where do you get that stuff, eh? My dear
old Furiosity, ain’t my resignation in the waste-basket?
Good-by, good luck and may the good Lord give you the
sense God gives geese. I’m a better man
than you are, Gunga Din.”

The door banged open. Then it banged shut and
The Laird was alone. The incident was closed.
The impossible had come to pass. For the strain
had been too great, and at nine o’clock on a
working day morning, steady, reliable, dependable,
automatic Andrew Daney having imbibed Dutch courage
in lieu of Nature’s own brand, was, for the first
time in his life, jingled to an extent comparable
to that of a boiled owl.

Mr. Daney’s assistant thrust his head in the
door, to disturb The Laird’s cogitations.
“The knee-bolters went out at the shingle mill
this morning, sir,” he announced. “They
want a six and a half hour day and a fifty per cent.
increase in wages, with a whole holiday on Saturday.
There’s a big Russian red down there exhorting
them.”

“Send Dirty Dan to me. Quick!”

A telephonic summons to the loading shed brought Daniel
P. O’Leary on the run. “Come with
me, Dan,” The Laird commanded, and started for
the shingle mill. On the way down he stopped
at the warehouse and selected a new double-bitted
ax which he handed to Dirty Dan. Mr. O’Leary
received the weapon in silence and trotted along at
The Laird’s heels like a faithful dog, until,
upon arrival at the shingle mill the astute Hibernian
took in the situation at a glance.

“Sure, ‘tis no compliment you’ve
paid me, sor, thinkin’ I’ll be afther
needin’ an ax to take that fella’s measure,”
he protested.

“Your job is to keep those other animals off
me while I take his measure,” The Laird
corrected him.

Without an instant’s hesitation Dirty Dan swung
his ax and charged the crowd. “Gower that,
ye vagabones,” he screeched. As he passed
the Russian he seized the latter by the collar, swung
him and threw him bodily toward old Hector, who received
him greedily and drew him to his heart. The terrible
O’Leary then stood over the battling pair, his
ax poised, the while he hurled insult and anathema
at the knee-bolters. A very large percentage
of knee-bolters and shingle weavers are members of
the I.W.W. and knowing this, Mr. O’Leary begged
in dulcet tones, to be informed why in this and that
nobody seemed willing to lift a hand to rescue the
Little Comrade. He appeared to be keenly disappointed
because nobody tried, albeit other axes were quite
plentiful thereabouts.

Presently The Laird got up and dusted the splinters
and sawdust from his clothing; the Red, battered terribly,
lay weltering in his blood. “I feel better
now,” said The Laird. “This is just
what I needed this morning to bring me out of myself.
Help yourself, Dan,” and he made a dive at the
nearest striker, who fled, followed by his fellow-strikers,
all hotly pursued by The Laird and the demon Daniel.